


Everything's Better on Prince Edward Island

by AgarthanGuide



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, SITRU, very mild h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 18:08:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3660042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgarthanGuide/pseuds/AgarthanGuide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for tumblr's April Fools Bodyswap.  Takes place in the SITRU universe, which is a creation of crzy_wrtr10, and borrows her OCs John (the paramedic) and Elliott (the psychologist).</p><p>On an uneventful night, a Quebec City ambulance paramedic encounters a lone SITRU officer in unexpected but fortuitous circumstances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything's Better on Prince Edward Island

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Perspective](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3288137) by [crzy_wrtr10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crzy_wrtr10/pseuds/crzy_wrtr10). 



John sat in the back of the ambulance, twirling the knob of his two-way radio and listening for the bubbles of silence that signaled the airspace of a lone ham radio operator or the chirpy buzz of a passing truck driver. Mathieu complained at first, but a few too many long, empty hours had taken the fight out of the dour driver, and he now bore the periodic static stoically. It was 2 am, technically a Wednesday, and there had been nothing on their radar since 9:30, when they had been summoned to the Chateau Frontenac, where a cheerfully reckless (and unfortunately allergic) diner had found himself unable to exercise restraint in the face of a plate of scallops out of the Bay of Fundy.

“I keep forgetting that all the college kids are stuck on campus for the week,” said John, raising his voice into a friendly shout so he could be heard in the front. “I haven’t worked an overnight in six months.”

“And all the old people are waiting to have their heart attacks between nine and five,” agreed Mathieu, making an unnecessarily hard corner down a Basse-Ville ally.

John was about to take Mathieu up on the rare offer of conversation when the radio in the front blared to life with a summons. He fumbled with his hand held, jumping onto the correct frequency just in time for the pertinent details. “Off-duty officer in attendance, response classification Alpha, code four three bee.”

The ambulance gave an energetic lurch as Mathieu oriented on the location the dispatcher indicated. La Citê-Limoilou glowed wetly with streetlights reflected in the river, and John took a moment to remember an evening out with Elliott as they passed his favorite restaurant en route to the harbor. He was still fantasizing about their fine selection of craft beer when Mathieu slid to a halt outside an unexpectedly posh pub on the lower level of a set of converted harbor warehouses, the interior of which had been gutted and remade into smart lofts, giving the whole neighborhood a whiff of nostalgie de la boue.

Two sets of lights greeted them, signaling the presence of the ever-vigilant SPVQ. Mathieu parked in accordance with a rough semi-circle the police had established around the ally entrance alongside the pub, and John jogged onto the scene, toting his med kit.

A frightened-looking, middle-aged couple stood in the headlights of a police cruiser, the man’s arm wrapped around the woman as she gave her trembling statement to a sympathetic officer. Two men sat against the brick wall of the former warehouse, their arms behind their backs. A blond woman with a ponytail broke away from the small group of officers standing over the arrested men, and trotted up to John.

“Stand down, John,” said Officer Athene Christopolous. She nodded to the scene before her. “It was an attempted mugging. They both had knives, but no one got acquainted with the pointy ends.” She flashed an unexpected grin, and then sobered again. “The couple got lucky. One of those SITRU boys just happened to be on hand.”

“Wow, really?” John couldn’t stop an amused smile from spreading across his face. “Well, that’ll teach ‘em.”

Officer Chistopolous hummed in agreement. “No real injuries.  Well, none that can’t be treated with a band-aid at the station. Only… you know those guys, yeah? Team One?” She lowered her voice as she said the name, and it almost sounded like reverence.  John ducked his head toward her. “I think… I think he could use a friend.” She turned back toward the far end of the ally, opening into the harbor-side street, and jerked her chin in the direction of a hunched figure sitting on the curb.  John walked towards the figure with measured steps, whistling a few atonal notes so his approach could be heard.  He knew better than to sneak up on any member of Team One.

“I don’t suppose I’m under arrest, by any chance?” It was Athos, curled into an old leather bomber jacket, his arms tucked protectively around his ribs. John sighed in sympathy for disheveled appearance- for his torn designer jeans and the sweat-soaked tee-shirt cooling in the night air.

“You couldn’t even stumble out of Old Quebec to get flagrantly drunk? You’re scaring the tourists.”

Athos cocked his head to one side, like a puppy struggling to understand a new command. “I thought the man with the knife was a bigger threat to the Carter’s 25th anniversary than my abasement, but I suppose you might have a point. This,” he indicated himself with a resigned gesture, “might be the most they’ve ever seen of Canadian law enforcement.” He bobbed his head in apology.

John dropped down to the curb alongside Athos and pulled his med kit up between them. “So where’s the rest of your crew of troublemakers?  Don’t you lads usually run in pairs?” He pulled a pair of gloves out of his jacket pocket and snapped them on as he peered into Athos’ face.  Slightly constricted pupils, but nothing too dire.

Athos tolerated the eye contact for as long as was necessary and then dropped his head back to his chest. He didn’t fight as John pulled his right arm out of the relative heat of the bomber jacket. “They’re in Nova Scotia,” said Athos. “d’Artagnan is… Aramis and Porthos are in Nova Scotia.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to Prince Edward Island,” said John, holding his fingers over Athos’ pulse.  Slow-ish, but not unexpected. He flipped the hand over and examined the barked knuckles. They were no longer bleeding, but John would have bet that they stung.

“Have you got a thing for Anne of Green Gables? That’s the only thing on Prince Edward Island,” said Athos, resting his forehead on his knees.

“I have a little sister, you know. Mary Jane.” John made a face in sympathy as Athos hissed at the sensation of the alcohol swab on his abused hand. “She never appreciated the grace of Anne’s character the way I did.”

“You were the kid who cried when she rejected Gilbert’s proposal,” mumbled Athos. He shuffled enough to present his left hand to John when his right hand was returned to him.

John finished wrapping Athos’ knuckles in silence, and they sat for a companionable moment, listening to the would-be muggers being read their rights. John cast about for a suitable direction, now that the caretaking was complete.

“On a scale of one to ‘just put my wife in prison for the murder of my brother,’ how fucked up are you feeling tonight?”

Athos huffed a laugh from the vicinity of his midsection, rubbing his forehead against the cool denim of his jeans. “A conservative seven,” he replied, and sighed deeply. “I… it’s my anniversary. Our anniversary.”

“Not a very auspicious date for an anniversary. I think the Carters would agree with me.” Another long pause. “Can I call Teville?”

“No.”  The response was unexpectedly quick and firm. “I know he wouldn’t… but I can’t…”

“No, it’s okay,” comforted John. He followed Athos’ unsteady gaze to the group of officers milling about the scene behind them. The suspects had been packed into squad cars, the Carter’s had given their statements and headed back to their hotel. There was only one thread left to tie up. “Athos,” murmured John, redirecting the tired man’s attention back to himself. Athos followed muzzily. “Can I have Elliott pick you up? After you give your statement? Maybe he can take you home.”

Athos seemed to deflate a little, and something like relief flashed across his face. “I’d like that,” he said quietly. And then, “thank you.”

A moment later, he was on his feet, walking with the fragility of the suddenly sober. Officer Christopolous met him halfway down the ally and started leading him back to her squad car with apologetic fondness. Athos got into the back seat without complaint, but not before reaching into the front and rolling down all the windows to the crisp night air.

“Have an uneventful morning!” chirped Officer Christopolous as she jogged around to the driver’s side of the cruiser, her ponytail bobbing behind her. John waved goodbye as they pulled away, and from the back window, a gauze-wrapped hand waved back.


End file.
